Graduations Galore

Graduation, according to Wikipedia is the action of receiving or conferring an academic degree or the ceremony that is sometimes associated, where students become graduates. Surely most of us have participated in at least one graduation or commencement in our times.

In my time, there seemed to be less pump and circumstance as there is for current students – when even pre-school tykes get a commencement ceremony these days!

At the end of kindergartner we had a little ceremony (though not officially a graduation). It was meant to assure us that we had accomplished so very much that year: learned our ABCs, numbers, all our colors, and a few songs, made new friends, and got into the most important routine of our lives.

But more than that, the point was to ensure us that even as things would change – new teacher, new classroom, perhaps even new classmates – we were headed to the big time, to the part of the school where the Big Kids were…

We were going to play in the regular playground!

We had a sixth grade graduation, marking our advancement to junior high school. Then we had ninth grade graduation, as we prepared to embrace our teenage years and the last phase of schooling before adulthood. Finally, high school graduation marked our most awaited moment when we were almost legal.

I hated my sixth grade graduation so much and experienced commencement fatigue by ninth grade to the point I declared I’d never do another goddamned graduation for as long as I lived! (I did. I screamed it in two languages to make sure I was fully understood.)

It took some doing to convince me that high school graduation would be enjoyable and I reluctantly acquiesced.

When I was conferred my Associate, I had the unenviable choice of picking graduation or the Aruba Jazz Festival – which included a performances by Ruben Blades and Celia Cruz. I do not regret shunning the cap and gown for a bikini and flimsy evening clothes. For the first time in my life, I spent half an hour dancing to “Pedro Navaja” in public and I had the time of my life.

That’s right, I graduated from my antipathy of dancing salsa near live males (a feat harder than passing macroeconomics).

Graduating from college – an achievement that took years, blood, sweat and tears – was a welcome end to a challenging but generally exciting part of my life. I felt like a bride. I walked at Radio City Music Hall and it was spectacular, dramatic, and fabulous.

Grad school gave me the fulfillment of a childhood fantasy (the arch behind me, jumping in the fountain afterwards), I had not shared that with many when I realized it was an impossible dream. I never expected to graduate, wear gold and purple, and walk on Washington Square Park. The fact that I beat the odds was priceless, but doing it was surreal and more satisfying than I can explain here.

I had another graduation last year when I completed my PC Tech training. I don’t dismiss the time and effort required nor the substantial intellectual, moral, and emotional assistance I had during this period to accomplish it. But the best part of graduation was going out for mofongo in the Bronx with my godfather and Mom.

For the last couple of weeks and for the next week or so, I will spy kids of all ages sporting caps and gowns; some happier than others about the celebrations; and I wonder if I have another graduation in me. Do I struggle for another tassel?

Of course, it’s not the tassel or even the diploma but the journey that counts. Still, I wonder, how many graduations does one need? For that matter, shouldn’t people who really appreciate them be the ones we confer the ceremonies upon?

“Congratulations for working 80 hours this without a psychotic break or a massacre! You’ve graduated to the weekend. Well deserved. Here: have a tassel.”